


homemade handkerchief

by Karentt1



Series: Needle and Thread [4]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Dark, Fun, M/M, Not Beta Read, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, all i know is that eskel is the nice one, but like, but one that is training kids to die, fuck geralt in this, geralt is the angsty one, i cant believe i had enough inspo to write this, i hope it lives up to some of your expectations, i love him tho, im getting attatched to him ngl, ive only watched the show, lambert is the angry one, like always, more character study-ish, not in a good way yall, return of jeremy!!!!!!, so i wrote vesemir like a badass grandpa, so if you see a mistake, tell me so i can fix it, this is amazing, though its not graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:40:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25056331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karentt1/pseuds/Karentt1
Summary: Jaskier is just like something Geralt created so long ago. He can't believe he didn't notice the parallels until now.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Needle and Thread [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1813528
Comments: 22
Kudos: 101
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	homemade handkerchief

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, I would just like to thank the people who are reading this series. I wrote sewing skills a few months ago, decided not to continue, then wrote a sequel randomly on a whim yesterday because i was bored. and now some of y'all are actually invested and enjoying this, and this is the first time this has happened and im so excited. I'm still learning how to write, and I'm so glad some of you actually enjoy this. I love you all. Really. 
> 
> Second, I hope this lives up to your expectations!! I have no plan for these, so please just bear with me until the end. 
> 
> (I also hope these timelines aren't too confusing.)

When Geralt was younger Vesemir taught him how to sew. 

It was winter in Kaer Morhen. It always seemed to be. The night had brought a terrifying storm with it, the kind that made men knock in their boots. The wind sounded like screams and wails, and Geralt huddled under the covers of his bed, hands held tightly over his ears. He was a teenager, just barely on the cusp of manhood. The mutations were over. He was almost a witcher and he was still getting used to the gold in the mirror. 

However, now it was peaceful. The seemingly endless night had come to its end, and the sun peeked through the clouds, a pale yellow. The courtyard was filled with snow, the white powder piling many feet up the wall. The Kaer Morhen boys were now working hard, shovelling it out. 

Across the courtyard, Lambert launched himself at Eskel, screaming something that was undecipherable. The other boys snapped their heads towards the fight, desperate for entertainment. Eskel went down quickly, before rolling over, punching Lambert in the nose. It wasn’t very hard; they both knew Eskel was stronger than that. But Lambert still glared back, itching for a fight. 

Geralt watched them scream at each other, wishing they would shut up. The voices of the other boys grated on his nerves. It felt like nails dragging down stone, and every inch of him was lit up, shaking. He trembled with the intense sense of _wrongness_ his ears felt. He took in a shaking breath, trying to calm himself down. 

Eskel had Lambert in a headlock, braying about his win. Lambert swatted at his hands, face red with humiliation. The other boys laughed, and Geralt growled, continuing to shovel the snow away. He loved his brothers; he really did. He would die for both of them, but at the moment he wanted them gone. He wanted them to shut up. He hated these new sensations. He hated his mother for leaving him here. 

“What is going on here?” a voice bellowed, echoing around, heading down the mountain. Every boy stopped what they were doing, looking over to the front of the stone belly. Geralt sighed in relief; his wish was granted. Eskel let go of Lambert, Lambert dropping to his knees, sinking into the soft snow. 

Vesemir stalked over, grabbing both of them by the scruff of their necks, like they were two disobedient kittens. They both muttered in anger, but allowed Vesemir to carry them off, walking back into the keep. Geralt could hear Vesemir angrily whispering at them, and he allowed himself a small smile at his victory. 

The other boys went back to shovelling, silent now that two of their own were being reprimanded. The two were probably being given their punishments right now. Geralt relaxed, grateful for the words nobody dared speak anymore. 

Later, he wandered through the halls of the stone keep, trying to find somewhere that didn’t have the insistent buzz of _pay attention to me_ that he was told he’d grow used to, but he hated everything about. The courtyard was shovelled out; it hadn’t taken long after when the boys stopped fooling around and really got to work. 

The other boys were in the kitchen, huddling by the tiny fire, getting warm, rubbing their hands together in front of the flame. Some were making dinner, but Geralt didn’t stick around to find out. The crackling of the fire and the laughing of his brethren made him want to throw up. He wandered away, and no one looked for him. He was like a ghost. He had the hair for it. 

His footsteps echoed through the halls. Even that made his fingertips tingle with the urge to do something about it, the urge to end it. He tried tip toeing, but he couldn’t keep his balance. He was still learning, still growing. His limbs were two long for him and he hadn’t developed that much muscle yet. 

“Geralt. Why are you not with the others?” 

Geralt looked to the side to see Vesemir looking disappointed, arms crossed at his chest. He was leaving a room, leaning against the door frame, covering something up. Geralt didn’t expect to see him here. He thought Vesemir would be in the library like he usually was. 

“It’s too loud out there,” he said simply, standing up even straighter. He hoped that maybe Vesemir would understand. 

Vesemir shook his head sadly. He looked regretful and Geralt didn’t know that was something he could feel. He wondered if Vesemir hated his job. “I know it is. But you’ll get used to it. You’ll have to, or you’ll die from it.” 

“You say that,” Geralt said quietly, wondering if he should continue talking to his mentor the way he was. “But it isn't. When will that happen?” 

“Some people experience it differently,” Vesemir explained. “It won’t be the same for everyone. But exposure helps for it. You should get back to the kitchen. Get something to eat.” 

Geralt took a deep breath. He couldn’t bear the idea of that, heading back to the area that was so easily the source of his discomfort. It felt wrong inside of him, like someone had taken some mud and smeared it on his cheek and left it to dry, itchy and irritating. 

Vesemir watched him carefully, before sighing and uncrossing his arms. “You’ll have to get used to it eventually,” he relented, moving to the side. He gestured for Geralt to enter the room, and Geralt gratefully followed, happy he didn’t have to head back downstairs. “But right now you can relax.” 

“Thank you,” Geralt said. The room was empty except for a wooden rocking chair and a chest. The window was opened by the single sliver, letting some fresh air in. Gerlt thought it must have been very musty before. Vesemir walked over to the chest, and started rummaging through. 

“I won’t try and pretend the mutations don’t hurt,” he started, pulling out a pouch. “You need to become accustomed to it. But when it gets too much- and only when it gets too much- you can come here.” 

He handed the pouch to Geralt, then sat down on the chair and nodded for Geralt to sit at his feet. Geralt obediently followed, crossing his legs. He fiddled with the pouch, pulling out a shiny needle. He looked at it curiously. 

“It’s an essential skill all witchers need to have,” Vesemir explained. “It also takes an incredible amount of concentration. It’s easy to forget while doing this.”

“Sewing? That’s a woman's job.” 

“There is nothing in this world that is a man's job and a woman's job. There are terrifying Queens who hold this land in an iron grip, and there are beautiful male whores, who will do anything for money. Sewing is for everyone.” 

Geralt nodded like he understood, and Vesemir grabbed his own supplies. “Now son,” he said, pulling out some black thread. “Follow my lead. I won’t speak again.” 

Geralt nodded once again, grateful for the silence, and he threaded the string through the needle hole, keeping a close eye on what Vesemir created. The world slipped away, and he felt peace for the first time since the mutations. 

* * *

Vesemir found him a few months later in the room, pulling a thread through a small cloth, held by two sticks nailed together. Geralt poked his tongue out, something another boy in the keep always described as cute. 

“I thought you were creating something useful,” he asked, looking over Geralt's shoulder with narrow eyes. The cloth had a tiny flower designed on it, clumsy and inexperienced but undeniably a yellow buttercup. “The coloured thread is for emergencies only.” 

“I’m sorry,” Geralt grunted, continuing to thread. “I thought it was pretty.” 

Vesemir looked at him for a few seconds before sighing. “Continue on,” he said, moving away, heading towards the door. “But that’s the last thing you’ll make with that thread. If you’re going to create something, make sure we can actually use it” 

Geralt nodded, and Vesemir left again, leaving Geralt in silence once more. Geralt took a deep breath, feeling himself relax, his hands moving methodical over and over again, almost like the way he shined swords. 

Ever since Vesemir had showed him the secret room, Geralt had been using it almost every week. He tried not to use it too much; he knew that in the real world he couldn’t have a sanctuary to escape to every time he felt overwhelmed. He knew he couldn’t allow himself to become too used to this, his secret treasure, but that night Lambert and Eskel whispered to each other across the beds, and Geralt gritted his teeth so hard his jaw still ached. It was such a shock to him that his fingers twitched, desperate to make something with his needle. 

Now he was here, and he thought that maybe this time he could create something beautiful. Evidently that wasn’t allowed here. Everything had to have a purpose, even Geralt himself. He wondered what would happen if he proved himself useless as a witcher. Would people just get rid of him? Would he die alone surrounded by the sounds he hated so much? 

He pulled the square cloth from between the sticks. The cloth was white with a tiny flower sewn into the corners. They were yellow, with a green leaf at the side, something Geralt could picture in his mind's eye from before he was abandoned, swaying between the grass. He was secretly proud of it, this little piece of beauty among the stones. It looked like something a lord or lady would have kept in their pocket, kept safe from dirt. A handkerchief too beautiful to ruin. He tucked it in his pocket and didn’t tell a soul about it. It was his, his piece of beauty, his pride. No one else could touch it. 

When he finally left the keep he realised something. Buttercups had five petals, not six. The handkerchief was wrong, and he felt stupid for it. He burned the cloth, watching as his tiny flower, a small bit of misplaced pride, went up in smoke. 

* * *

He met Jaskier a while later. The man- boy really- approached him, fearless in his greeting, like he didn’t know Geralt was a fucking butcher. He was the stupidest man Geralt had ever seen. He was also the prettiest; Jaskier had the loveliest eyes on the continent. Jaskier waxed poetic about Geralt's eyes, the first poem he ever wrote in Geralt's name, calling Geralt's golden eyes the most wondrous things in creation. Geralt thought that maybe that was a lie; no one could compare to Jaskiers brilliant blue, especially not Geralt's piss coloured own. 

Jaskier talked too much. That was the first thing Geralt noticed about him. He never shut up, he was always making sounds, almost like no one had beaten him into submission when he was young. Or maybe someone had, and Jaskier was rebelling against the pain, the way angry teenagers did. Either way, Geralt hated it. He wanted a sanctuary. He knew he couldn’t have one the way he did in Kaer Morhen. He punched Jaskier in the stomach, and Jaskier barely even flinched. 

Despite that however, Geralt continued letting Jaskier follow him. He didn’t know why. Sometimes when they were walking, he wanted to beat the man with his own lute. He wanted the quiet back, when he was able to relax and take deep breaths. When they were in the forest Geralt couldn’t escape it. Jaskier sang loud and he was talented, but Geralt always trembled. His fingers twitched, desperate for a needle. 

It was in the forest a few months after meeting him that Geralt learned that Jaskier wasn’t the boy’s real name. 

“Julian?” he asked, sounding surprised. Julian was too regular, too prim and proper. Jaskier was beautiful, a name suited for someone like Jaskier. Someone who created poetry of everything, someone who talked about the smallest things, too rosy cheeks and lips, like they were the most beautiful thing in the world. 

“Yep. Call me that and you die,” Jaskier said plainly, not even looking up from his notebook. Geralt snorted. He knew Jaskier couldn’t even punch him properly, still a boy learning how to fight, but he resolved not to say that name. Clearly there was some resentment there. Geralt didn’t feel like digging today. 

“Did you choose it yourself?” 

“Yeah,” Jaskier said, then noticed Geralt's curious look, finally looking up from the paper. “When I was young, I had this nanny who didn’t speak much English. She spoke Polish. I used to bring her buttercups everyday. I was in love with her the way young boys are with the village girls. She used to hand them back, tucking them in my hair. I don’t know,” Jaskier said, shrugging. “It was pretty. Buttercup. That’s what Jaskier means.” He laughed to himself. “At least it’s not Dandelion. That was my first choice.” 

“Buttercups are poisonous,” Geralt absently said. He remembered sewing his six-petalled failure decades ago. He remembered feeling something die in him watching it burn. 

“Just like me,” Jaskier replied excitedly. “I look pretty, but I’ll hurt you if you get too close.” 

Geralt laughed. “You couldn’t hurt a fly.” 

“Hey” Jaskier pouted, crossing his arms. He looked like a child. Geralt supposed he was; he was only turning twenty in a few months. Compared to Geralt himself Jaskier was nothing but a baby. “I can so hurt someone.” 

Geralt shook his head. He couldn't picture it. He couldn’t picture Jaskier fighting for his life the way Geralt did everyday. 

* * *

“Um excuse me?” someone asked, hesitantly knocking on the inn door. The door was opened, but the man still knocked, drawing attention to himself. Geralt turned, putting down his knives. He was just sharpening them so he was ready for the contract tonight. He would probably leave one behind for Jaskier, so he could protect himself when Geralt wasn’t around. 

He and Jaskier were staying in an inn for the next few days. Jaskier had expressed desire for someone new things, a hot bath, and a proper bed. Geralt couldn’t deny him. He hated how weak he was in the face of Jaskier’s eyes. He wished the man had never followed him from the tavern. 

The man at the door looked terrified. He had bright green eyes, almost as lovely as Jaskiers or Yennefers, and he had floppy red hair. He was covered in freckles, something Geralt knew Jaskier would describe as galaxies in his poetry. It made him feel strange, thinking of Jaskier writing for someone other than him. 

“What do you want?” Geralt asked, sounding harsh. The man gulped, pale with fear. He held a cloth package in his hand, shaking almost like a leaf in autumn. 

“Is-” he took a deep breath, gathering himself. “-is Jaskier here?” 

Jaskier wasn’t. He was somewhere in the city, looking around for something beautiful to buy. Geralt expected him back in a few minutes. He wasn’t going to tell this man that. 

“Who are you?” 

“I’m Jeremy. I have some clothes for him?” the man whispered, holding out the package. Geralt hated how afraid this man was of him. 

“I’ll give them to him,” Geralt grunted, walking towards the man who stiffened. Geralt took the package from him, feeling how light it was in his large hands. “Do I have to pay or some shit?” 

“Oh no,” Jeremy assured. “It’s a gift.” He licked his lips, suddenly looking nervous for a whole different reason. “Just tell him it’s from Jeremy.” 

Geralt watched him for a few seconds before it dawned on him. It was so fucking obvious. It was almost sad. Jeremy was in love with Jaskier. 

He felt something ignite deep in his bones. Something that felt like rage. Something he wasn’t used to, but it almost seemed to burn emerald green. Vesemir hadn’t prepared him for this. 

He almost laughed; didn’t Jeremy know Jaskier would never go for someone like him? Jaskier loved beautiful things, he loved courtly people. That was where he belonged; somewhere tucked in the pocket of a rich fool who fed Jaskier dark chocolate caramel surrounded in silk sheets. Someone who draped him in jewels and gold and floral crowns. Jeremy, a simple tailor, could never do that. All he could do was hand over the courtly clothes, like a silly messenger boy. 

Neither can you, someone whispered in Geralt's ear. It sounded almost like Vesemir. You can’t do anything for him either. 

“I will tell him,” Geralt muttered, slamming the door shut in the man's face. He couldn’t bear to look at him anymore. The room was silent as Geralt walked over to the bed. He threw the package down, and grabbed his newly sharpened knife. He tore the fabric open and picked up the clothes. It was a lovely pastel pink, shimmery and lacy. It looked like something a princess would wear. Someone protected at court. 

Geralt continued looking through, finding a matching blue one. Each garment was covered in lovely little flowers. They were better than anything Geralt had ever seen, and suddenly he remembered the buttercup he sewed so long ago. It was child's play compared to this, and he was embarrassed he even allowed his fingers to create something so stupid. Something that was supposed to be pretty, but looked ugly created by him. 

He spread out the two garments on the bed, then noticed something nestled at the back of the package. He reached in, pulling them out, and looking at them carefully. 

A pink ribbon and a blue ribbon, long and shimmery. They were so small in Geralt's hand and he hated them. He knew Jaskier would love it. 

* * *

Jaskier gently dabbed a soft cloth on Geralt's cuts. They were mostly small, covering his arms after a particularly violent monster attack, but there was a large one, one that would definitely need stitches to heal properly. He healed faster than most men thanks to the mutations, but this one would need extra attention. 

“Geralt, you fucking idiot,” Jaskier muttered under his breath, dipping the now pink cloth in water. He raised it back up to Geralt's arm, who barely even flinched at the sting. “You just have to be reckless, you just have to throw yourself into dangerous situations, do you know how worried I was?” 

“Stop being such a mother hen, I’m fine.” 

“You’re fine? You’re fine??” Jaskier yelled, throwing his hands up. Little drops of water went everywhere and Geralt shut his eyes so they didn’t go in. “Your arm looks fucking horrible. Do you know what would happen if I lost you?” 

He took a deep, gulping breath in, trying to relax. Jaskier trembled violently, his eyes filling with tears, and Geralt watched him carefully. He didn’t know what to do. He wasn’t good with his own emotions, let alone someone else's. 

“I’m sorry,” he eventually said, not knowing what he was apologising for, but he wanted to make things better. He didn’t want Jaskier hurt. He didn’t want Jaskier to be upset because of him. 

“You should be,” Jaskier muttered, wiping his eyes before the tears came down. Geralt thought that was a shame. Jaskier went back to tending to Geralt's wounds, gently dabbing again. 

He’s beautiful, something in Geralt whispered. You don’t deserve him. 

Geralt watched him work, bandaging his wounds, and tried to imagine Jaskier tending to someone else. Tried to imagine the man kneeling on the wooden floor, wiping the skin of Eskel, or writing poetry about Lambert. He hated that thought; he didn’t know what God had brought Jaskiers friendship to him, but he was thankful to them. 

He’s all yours, something whispered again. Tuck him in your pocket. He’s an annoying little fuck, but he’s useful. You want him. 

Jaskier finished dealing with the smaller cuts, then reached into the bag and pulled out a needle, ready to tackle the big one. Geralt leaned over and plucked it from his hand, startling Jaskier.

“What-” 

“I’ll do this,” Geralt said, grabbing the thread. He rummaged through and found the strongest one. He knew how to sew with both hands, just like he knew how to sword fight with both. 

“But-” 

“No buts Jaskier,” Geralt said firmly. “I’m the one who knows how to sew. No you.” 

He would never say he was grateful for the opportunity to sew. Sometimes Jaskiers voice overwhelmed him and he couldn’t go back to Kaer Morhen. This was almost good enough, feeling the needle between his fingertips once again. 

* * *

It was the middle of the night. The moon shone down from the trees, enveloping them in its light. Geralt knew Jaskier used to covet the stars and the moon. He read Jaskiers poetry book, words written before Jaskier had met Geralt and found a new muse in a witcher. Geralt didn’t think the stars were that beautiful; they were simply pinpricks in the dark. But then again, Jaskier seemed to find Geralt just as lovely, and if Jaskier could find beauty in him, Jaskier could find beauty in the white lights of the sky’s children. 

Geralt turned over on the rocky ground to face Jaskier. The man was asleep, breath clouding in the cold. He was huddled together, body facing Geralt, seeking warmth even in his sleep. He shivered in the brisk summer night, and Geralt felt bad for him. 

He hesitantly reached over and pulled the blanket over Jaskiers shoulder. Jaskier moved towards the heat, and Geralt moved away quickly, not wanting to be caught. He was careful not to touch any skin. He didn’t like the idea of that. 

He waited a few seconds to see if Jaskier would wake up, but his eyelids didn’t even flutter. Geralt brought two fingers close to Jaskiers face and dragged them down his cheek, ending at his jaw. Jaskier didn’t even stir and two white lines were left behind, quickly clouding again with red. 

Geralt liked this game; he finally thought he knew how Icarus felt. Flying too close to the sun, testing the waters of what he was allowed to do. And if Jaskier was the sun, Geralt's hand was the wax wings, resting gently on Jaskiers smooth cheek. Geralt wondered if Jaskier would wake, melting the wax but he didn’t, and Geralt was safe. 

Geralt watched him, hand on his cheek, and thought that maybe Jaskier was his sun. Jaskier was his warmth, his light, his sanctuary, just like the one Geralt had back at Kaer Morhen. Except this one never shut up. Somehow, Geralt only minded sometimes now. The constant chatter was annoying, but it was Jaskier. 

Jaskier was like his handkerchief, thought Geralt. It made sense suddenly. A buttercup, something beautiful Geralt wasn’t supposed to have, something he hid away from the other boys, something that should have been in court, belonging to a Queen. Maybe even belonging to someone like Yennefer. 

Geralt wondered how long it would take until Jaskier burned, just like the buttercup cloth. 

He pulled his hand back from Jaskiers cheek quickly. What if Jaskier woke up and thought Geralt was creepy? What if he woke up and thought Geralt was in love with him? Maybe he was, Geralt didn’t know, but he knew Jaskier would not appreciate the love of a witcher. He would pack up and run away if he even knew Geralt coveted him. Geralt didn’t want Jaskier to leave him. 

Geralt needed to protect Jaskier. He needed to protect Jaskier from his brothers, he needed to protect Jaskier from the world, and most of all, he needed to protect Jaskier from Jaskier himself.

As the sun came up, Geralt made a promise to himself. Jaskier would be safe with him forever.

* * *

Jaskier fitfully slept, blood pouring from his lips, staining the pillow scarlet. The blue ribbon was sewn in, pulling Jaskiers lips together, some of Geralt's best work if he did say so himself. Geralt admired the silence he finally had. It coated the room and he loved it. At last he wasn’t overwhelmed by the constant chatter Jaskier seemed to have, and he was no longer listening to the lies Jaskier told. 

Who said he needed to be protected? He was Geralt of Rivia; he protected himself, and now he also protected a young human named Jaskier. 

This was better for the both of them. Jaskier would be protected from himself, and Geralt would take the ribbon out in a few days. He wasn’t _that_ cruel after all. He knew how much Jaskier loved his voice. He wouldn’t take that away from Jaskier for too long. 

He settled down in his own bed, pulling the covers over his body. He faced the door, just in case an intruder came in during the night, and he played with the knife hidden under his pillow. 

He shut his eyes, knowing they were safe and if something happened, he was prepared for it. He sunk into slumber, knowing he did the right thing. 

He didn’t notice Jaskier crack an eye open from the bed, ready to run. 

* * *

They were in the marketplace, Jaskier’s hand held firmly in Geralt's own. This time it was Geralt dragging Jaskier places. Jaskier used to be the one to do that. 

Geralt pulled them through the crowds, looking left and right until he found what he was looking for. A stall run by an old woman, hidden at the alleyway. Draped over pieces of carved wood were pieces of beautiful jewellery and shimmery ribbons, obviously handmade by the old woman’s shaking hands. Geralt admired them all; the colours were even brighter in the sun. 

The old woman recognised Geralt and she smiled at him with a toothless mouth, looking for another sale. Geralt watched Jaskier skim his eyes over the ribbons, looking pensive. 

“Do you want to pick some for your hair?” he asked gruffly, watching as Jaskier snapped his head towards him in shock. 

“Just for my hair?” Jaskier hesitantly asked after a minute. The old woman raised her eyebrow at that, and Geralt nodded at her, telling her to keep silent with his eyes. He was always good at silent communication. 

“Of course.” 

Jaskier scanned the colours once more before pointing to a plain white one. Geralt grabbed it from the rack and the old woman held out her hand for coins. Geralt poured some in and she eagerly snapped her hand shut, pulling it back like Geralt was going to rip them away from her again. 

“Pleasure doing business with you,” she crowed, and the two walked away, blending into the crowd once more. 

* * *

“Toss a coin to your witcher,” Vesemir sang quietly under his breath, flipping the page of his book. “Oh valley of plenty, oh oh.” 

He hated having that song stuck in his head. But he could admit it was catchy, and he could admit it was useful. It was really improving the reputation of witchers. He would have to thank the bard if he ever met him. 

The door to the library swung open with a bang, and Vesemir looked up. He smiled slightly when he saw who it was, snapping his book shut. 

“Yennefer of Vengerberg. What a surprise. What brings you to Kaer Morhen today?” 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed the fourth work!!!


End file.
